


How to Kiss an Elven-king

by JolieFolie



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Dubcon Kissing, F/M, Fluff, French Kissing, Neck Kissing, Romance, Wooing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2015-10-13
Packaged: 2018-03-04 12:26:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3067793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JolieFolie/pseuds/JolieFolie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You know that feeling of wanting to make out with someone, but you can't, because they're, um... fictional?<br/>Yeah. Me too.<br/>Rated M, because I'm a crazy pervert. Well, actually because of dub-con kissing and "mature" themes, although quite honestly I've been having these thoughts since I was like 12. Alas, the perils of being politically correct!<br/>Anyways...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So here be the deal: If you're wondering whether I'm going to stick to canon or not, let me give you a hint -- I'm still trying to figure out how to pronounce Smaug. *Drops to knees* How many syllables can a five-letter name have??  
> I just saw the final installment of The Hobbit. I'm at the point where if I see a picture of Lee Pace on tumblr, I squeal like a hamster being tortured and I'm fucked for the rest of the day.  
> Happy reading!  
> (Update Jan 2: I uploaded a first-person narration version of this on FF.net. I have the same username on that site).

The sun is too bright, the wind is too fierce, and it’s s-s-so cold…

You drop to your knees, the thin material of your pants providing no protection from the hard, heavy snow layered against the earth. It doesn’t matter – the frost has already bitten you, and –

The elements have painted your eyelashes with icicles. You squint through them, blind.

It would be so nice to _sleep…_

You feel something solid grip your waist. You must be dreaming. You close your eyes, feeling lifted as though into your mother’s arms. _Take me home._

“Mine.” A warm voice croons, as if from a distance. Your cheek falls against something solid, but not nearly as hard as the earth.

The last thing you feel is your hair tickling your nose. No, it couldn’t be… All your hair is secured under your cap.

The needles thrown from the North slow your thought process. _Then whose hair…?_

And then –

Nothing hurts anymore.

* * *

Everything hurts. Your vocal cords, dry, croak out a helpless cry. You twitch and your bare skin slides against velvet.

Burning hands respond and an impossibly smooth, deep voice soothes you with words you don’t understand.

You try to speak but your chapped lips warn you against forming a single syllable.

Something warm slips over your lips and – oh, god – whatever it is, it coats your lips perfectly. Your vision is hazy; you see a hand below your nose, providing balm to your lips. You detect the scent of masculinity, but not man.

“Water. Please.” Your voice is tiny.

You don’t realize someone is lying behind you until you feel his heavenly warmth peel away from you. You shiver, clutching at the nearest thing, which happens to be the thick blanket securing you against the bed. The blanket is so soft you can’t feel it. You wonder if you’re dreaming again.

“Sit up.”

You don’t recognize the voice, but you’re too weak to resist it. As soon as you obey, the rim of a chalice kisses your bottom lip and your hands are flying out grasping and you’re drinking it, all of it, _yes –_

You gasp, finally releasing your grip when the cup is empty. You hear your companion – rescuer? – chuckle softly. His hand never left the chalice; he pulls it back and you glance over at –

He’s sitting next to you, the blanket covering him from his abdomen down. His white hair cascades over his shoulders and the skin of his chest and arms is free from imperfection. You avert your gaze from the… well, the apex of his legs, which you shouldn’t be looking at. Your manners are beginning to thaw and you remember to look him in the eye.

You are granted a split second to gaze upon his face while his eyes are cast downward. His dark lashes – long and thick – shield you from his eyes and, when he meets your gaze, you’re swept up into the snowstorm all over again.

Another helpless noise escapes your throat and you do what any creature might do in his presence – you shrink back under the blanket. Your learnt manners are urging you to sit back up and face him, but your instincts tell you to hide.

He murmurs something in a foreign tongue. “You’re warm now,” he says with the same tone and cadence. You assume he’s translating. Although that is giving him the benefit of the doubt. What makes you assume he is a benevolent creature? His appearance hardens your lungs, shortens your breath – but beauty doesn’t always translate to goodness.

You curl your toes. “Yes,” you admit, not sure if he was asking a question or just making a statement. You don’t want to risk being rude by accidentally ignoring him. There is something in the way he uses his voice, how he holds his chin, which commands respect. And something else that suggests you don’t want to know the consequences of failing to pay that respect.

You stretch your arms and legs out as best you can without knocking into him. The bed is expansive, the room is expansive, and his body must be too, because your foot brushes against his leg – his feet are further down than yours, making you curious about his height. He surpasses you in size, strength, and hairstyle.

How long were you asleep? Does he expect you to fall back asleep? God, you can’t sleep now – your heart is racing. You hope he can’t hear it. “Where am I?”

He slips further down under the blanket so he’s lying next to you, his smooth skin slipping against yours. It tickles, but you dare not laugh – you shiver instead. “You are where I need you to be.” He slips his left arm underneath the pillow behind your head. He gently pushes you onto your side so he can cup your body with his longer one, and then uses his right arm to pull you snug against him. “There are many tiny, beautiful winter treasures to be found, but not all of them can I hold in my hands without them melting.”

His voice reminds you of the hot cider you used to love when you were a child. _What was that about melting in his arms? Or, wait, what…?_

There is something unsettling yet comforting about your surroundings that makes you ambivalent about finding sleep again. Although, if this creature is indeed your rescuer, is there really anything to be nervous about? You are grateful for a shelter from the cold – for a shelter at all. Your home isn’t much of a refuge these days.

You try to think back to the snowstorm, searching your memory desperately…

You turn around to face him, your weakened muscles protesting against the effort. “Why did you rescue me?” He feels so warm, his scent is so comforting – you want so badly to trust him.

He lifts his arm briefly to accommodate your shift in position and then wraps you up again. You catch a glimpse of his impossibly straight hair, his ear poking through the strands. _He is definitely not Man._ You rest your head under his, so your nose is against his chest. _But he smells so much better than one._

“I have never seen a traveller so unprepared, so vulnerable, so…“ _Beautiful_ , he says under his breath, or maybe your mind is playing tricks on you. His voice is deep, and you’re not sure whether it’s to reassure you or lull you into a false sense of security.

Either way, the cadence with which he speaks has a strange effect on you: you’re squeezing your legs together (which you hope he doesn’t realize – how embarrassing) but your eyelids are getting heavier. You’re suddenly aware of your breathing; you try your best to breathe normally, to mask the effect that he has on your body.

He continues, “I am the Elven-king of the Woodland Realm, and a trespasser will always surrender to me before anyone – and anything – else.” He cups the side of your face. “What is your name?”

His intense gaze and his beautiful face make you nervous, but you don’t want to let him know that. He is definitely older than you, and you want to appear confident, like you can take care of yourself. You say your full name, as evenly as possible.

He nods imperceptibly, as if memorizing your name and your features.

You bite your lip before speaking. In any other situation, it’d be a simple thing to ask someone’s name – but here, it’s so quiet, and he’s so composed, you’re afraid of saying the wrong thing or tripping over your words. “And you are…?” you ask hesitantly.

When he reveals his name, you know immediately that you’ll never be able to forget it.

“Thranduil,” you echo him, saying it slowly, trying it out. You nestle back on your side, so your back is against his torso, the way you were before. It’s weird, but a part of you feels privileged to know his name – like he’s given you a private key.

When he fits his arm around your abdomen, he touches you as though he is revisiting old fingerprints he left on you centuries ago. How could a stranger know your body so well? He buries his face against the back of your neck, his nose at the base of your hairline, and inhales you, slowly.

You don’t realize you’ve been holding your breath until he stops moving. Since his arm is over your abdomen, rising and falling with your breaths, you do all you can to monitor your breathing – neither rapid and shallow, which would give away your nervousness, nor too deep, which might give away the fact that you’re trying to take in as much of the scent of his bed as possible. You almost can’t believe this is happening. Part of you wonders if this is a dream, if you’ll wake up and be back at home... and have to run away all over again.

He murmurs something in his own language. His voice is like honey that drips down your skin, curls around your curves, and fastens you to him. You will yourself to stay awake, to listen even though the only thing you understand is the music of his words, but…

* * *

There are no windows. The candles overhead provide artificial starlight, and you can only assume night has fallen. You wonder what the moon looks like tonight. Everyone who is alive right now, who gazes into the sky, shares the same moon.

You remember the other humans, back home – what would technically be your family. A part of you wonders if anyone back home is looking for you. You kind of want someone to, just so that you knew they cared. And another part of you hopes no one comes after you, so you can truly get away from them.

_I don’t want to be on my own. I just want to be free. And safe._

Your thoughts rouse your body. It takes you a moment to remember where you are, but when you do, you stay perfectly still. _I’m supposed to be here_ , you tell yourself, even though you don’t fully believe it’s true. You hug your abdomen, but the arms that kept you snug as you fell asleep have retreated.

The Elven-king of the Woodland Realm. He sounds way too important to actually care about you. Saving you, and then letting you sleep here – his kindness was most likely prompted by pity. You stay still, listening carefully, trying to discern whether he’s sleeping or awake by his breathing pattern. You don’t want to accidentally wake him up – he rescued you, the least he deserves is a proper night’s sleep. You start practicing your goodbyes. You can’t stay here forever.

You could turn around to look at him. Would it be rude to leave while he’s asleep?

You shift a fraction of an inch, testing the bed. It doesn’t creak, but you’re still cautious – all it takes is one noise to potentially wake him. Slowly, you roll over onto your other side, then prop yourself up on your arm.

He’s lying on his back, his hair fanned out on the pillow and on his shoulders without even a touch of bedhead. His hair is so fabulous, it yields to nothing, not even sleep. The steady pulse in his neck, the slow rise and fall of his abdomen – there is a world at work within him, all of it hidden from sight.

His lips part – only a hair’s width – but it’s enough to startle you. All you need right now is for him to wake up and wonder why you’re hovering over him.

Well, you’re not hovering over him. You’re just watching…

You can’t take your eyes off his mouth. A voice inside you says, _kiss him._

No, that wouldn’t be right. You doubt he’d let you kiss him if he was awake. Your entire body heats up as you try to push the thought out of your mind. _I should either leave or go back to sleep._

Then again, Thranduil was watching you sleep only a short time ago. And he must have been thinking _something_ as he watched you – maybe not the same thoughts you’re having now, but…

You wonder how old Thranduil is. You’ve heard that Elves live much longer than Men, and you wouldn’t be surprised if he is thousands of years old. Even though he doesn’t look it.

Back home, many girls your age were betrothed to older men. You never understood it, but then, you were never very good at attracting the attention of the opposite gender. So often, you felt like an outsider, an alien in your own village, able to find your kin only among the characters of your favourite stories.

 _So I woke up in bed with an Elven-king…_ Definitely not like the fairy tales of your childhood.

Every time you wondered about older men, it was always in an abstract way. Never like this.

Very innocently, you reach your hand forward and place it on his arm, keeping your eyes on his in case he opens them. Even though you’re not doing anything wrong – at least, that’s what you tell yourself – you’re still nervous.

You thought that if you just let yourself touch his arm, your urges would go away and you wouldn’t have to battle with yourself any longer. Now, your desire to get closer to him is even stronger. You mentally kick yourself for allowing yourself to touch him.

He inhales sharply.

You freeze. A strand of his hair tickles your finger.

If he woke up right now, you’d have to admit _why_ you have your hand on him, which means confessing to your crush.

_He’s a great and powerful Elven-king, and I’m just… me._

You know you’re being too hard on yourself, but there’s no point in convincing yourself otherwise. He is so gorgeous, he probably has a bevy of beautiful maidens waiting to share his bed.

You bring a hand to your lips, touching the spot where he applied the balm. If you kissed him, would the balm transfer over and leave a tell-tale sheen?

You lower yourself closer to him. His hair is so vast, you can’t help yourself – you lift your hand off his arm and smooth a strand against the pillow. His hair goes on forever, cooler than the temperature of your fingers, and there isn’t a single kink or knot in it.

Moving so slowly, it doesn’t even feel like you’re moving, you close the distance between your faces. You’re an inch from his face now; he’s out of focus. You’re staring at his closed eyes, ready to lie back down if he suddenly opens them. If he woke up right now, you swear you’d pee yourself. You hold your breath so the puffs of air won’t hit his cheek.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you place a single, whisper-light kiss against his cheekbone.

You retract your head, sucking in a breath. You feel a little thrill vibrate down your spine. You can’t help it; you smile, squeezing your eyes shut.

You hear the tiniest of noises – his head twitches against his pillow.

Your eyes widen and you do your best not to jump out of bed. Quickly, you lay the side of your head against the pillow and shut your eyes.

After a few moments of silence, you open your eyes. He still appears to be sleeping. You know you should go back to sleep now, but you can’t stop replaying that fleeting moment, that stolen kiss, over and over in your head.

You feel so silly, like your heart’s turned into mush. You curl your toes, needing some part of you to tense up so you won’t burst.

You can’t believe you only kissed Thranduil’s cheek, yet it felt more intense than all of the kisses you’ve shared with other guys combined.

You wonder how intense it might be to kiss him on the lips.

You open one eye, stealing another glance at him. You press your face into the pillow, hard, pretending it’s him. The pillow doesn’t have feelings; the pillow can’t say yes or no.

But you need to show respect to Thranduil. And how respectful is it to kiss someone while they can’t give their consent?

Maybe it depends on the kiss. You think about how caregivers will kiss their babies’ heads. Surely an innocent kiss can’t be that horrible.

The pillow is soft, but it doesn’t sate your desire. You need to know what it feels like to kiss him, to truly kiss him. Maybe when he wakes up, you can ask his permission?

And then he’d reject you. Your face burns, anticipating the humiliation.

You wonder what it would be like to go to bed not just this night but every night, with a strong, lovely creature beside you to protect you. To have a man say, “I love you,” and really mean it.

Your lips part silently as you mouth an impossible wish, not because you mean it, but because you want so desperately to know what it feels like to say it to a man.

The pillow won’t do. Your dreams won’t do. Your thoughts won’t leave you alone. You need to kiss him.

You’ll do it quickly, just as you kissed his cheek, and then you’ll be done. You inch towards him again. It feels so intimate to be this close to a man, especially one who is older. You wonder about what kind of experiences he’s had…

Back home, you kissed guys who had roughly the same amount of experience as you. But to kiss Thranduil – that would be an adventure with someone much more experienced, much more capable. You long to learn how he might surprise you.

The promise, the hint, of a vast collection of carnal knowledge that grossly exceeds yours is enough to send a rush of anticipation throughout your body. You fantasize not about kissing him anymore, but about what he would do with you, if he wanted you the way you wanted him.

You lower yourself over his face. You know just how sensitive human lips are, and you assume Elven lips are the same – you can’t apply any pressure, or he’ll feel it and certainly wake up. Your neck is stiffening, but you dare not adjust yourself and risk bumping into his nose. You close your eyes and count to three.

_One… two…_

You accidentally lower yourself a hair’s width too low, but it’s low enough to touch his lips.

His eyes open.

Caught, you pull your head back too fast.

You feel like crying, you’re so embarrassed – although there’s no denying the pulsing between your legs. You bury your face in the pillow like an ostrich.

He murmurs your name and it sounds so nice, you have to press your whole body into the bed to keep yourself from shaking. “How long have you been awake, little one?”

You can’t tell if he’s serious or whether he’s teasing you. You know he saw you, but you’re not willing to admit defeat just yet. Doing your best to be a good actress, you let out a fake snore.

A laugh bursts out of him. “Ah, fast asleep, I see.”

You curse yourself for your carelessness. You turn your head to peek up at him. There’s no use in pretending anymore. You worry about whether he’ll be angry at you for stealing a kiss while he slept – or worse, laugh at how ridiculous you are for trying to come that close to someone so dizzyingly high above your station.

He cups your shoulder. Your eyes widen. His touch is firm and you can’t tell what he’s thinking. His eyelids lower. “You are so young. You don’t know how to kiss properly.”

Your heart sinks below the mattress. You knew you were a fool. “I’m sorr--”

He pushes you against the pillow, pressing his mouth against yours.

It’s too much to process at once: the ghost of his husky voice still haunting you as both his hands grasp your shoulders, keeping you in place. You couldn’t move if you tried. Your hands, stunned, are still by your sides. Just as you begin to lift them –

He retreats just as quickly as he advanced on you. Your lips part, speechless. One hand remains on your shoulder, giving you a glimmer of hope despite your attempts to talk yourself out of wanting another kiss. You can’t help it – it’s like he has his own gravitational pull. You get closer to him, but he keeps his arm stiff, holding you away from him.

Embarrassed, you feel wave of disappointment wash over you.

And then he kisses you again. Your lips fit together perfectly. This time, his tongue enters you, touching your tongue so gently it’s enough to make you whimper.

It’s slow, it’s languorous. He kisses as though he has already mastered time, as if he is going to live forever. Before, you were only ever kissed by guys who might live to be several decades, if they were lucky. They kissed quickly, like stones skipping across the surface of a pond. But Thranduil’s kiss is deeper than an ocean, and darker than the heart of the earth.

You close your eyes this time. This time it’s real. This time, he must be kissing you because he wants to. How unbelievable is that? Still nervous, you keep your body still, even though you want to envelop him with your legs and arms. You lift your hands, placing them on either side of his neck. Keeping him close to you, you move your thumbs ever so slightly, stroking the line of his jaw.

He slowly pulls his tongue out of you, licking your top lip for a millisecond – just enough time for you to doubt whether he actually did it, or whether your desire has driven you to hallucinate. He moans oh-so-quietly as he pulls away. His arms brush against yours, and every hair on your arms stands up. Your skin feels so sensitive. He cups your face. The pads of his thumbs dance along your cheekbones in perfect synchrony. “How does that feel?”

You’re grateful for the blanket covering your bodies, so he can’t see what a mess he’s made out of you. You keep your eyes shut, too nervous to open them. He’s too perfect for you to look at. “Good,” you stammer.

He draws circles around your eyes with the tips of his fingers, enticing you to look at him. “Merely ‘good’?”

He sounds like he’s smiling. Curious, you open your eyes. His mouth is soft but straight – only his eyes suggest a hint of teasing. You’re afraid to tell him the truth, afraid that if you tell him just how good it felt, he’ll laugh at you. He must know that you don’t have nearly as much experience as him. Is he toying with you? You hope not – at this point, you don’t think you’d survive that much blunt trauma to your heart. You try to pull his head back down, but he keeps himself rooted. He finally smiles with his mouth; you’re not getting any closer to him without giving him an answer.

You sigh, giving in to him. “No. It feels _amazing_.”

And then his entire body is pressing down on you. You feel like a leaf being swept up into the sky by his great power. You would have never guessed that you could feel so fragile, yet so safe, at the same time. It would be so easy to drown in him, but your lungs protest. You lift your chin, breaking the kiss, gasping.

He allows you a single precious sip of air before he consumes you again, his tongue reaching further within you this time. He hums, joining the vibration of your vocal cords with his own. He moves between your legs, slowly, giving you time to anticipate the sensation of having him even closer to that which pulses within you.

You want so badly to wrap your legs around his waist. You worry about seeming too forward. You were taught not to speak unless spoken to, to not be the one to initiate things. If you pulled him in closer with your legs, would he push you away?

Before you can decide, he moves a hand to your neck. He slows his kisses and strokes your collarbone, finally releasing your mouth. You gasp but feel no relief – you need his lips on you again.

You squeeze your eyes shut, scolding yourself. His passion has spoiled you. You’re going to need him for the rest of your life now, and you won’t be able to have him ever again. Why else would he break away? You turn your head away, wanting to increase the distance between your bodies, inadvertently exposing your neck to him.

He kisses the space between your collarbones, then your pulse point, slowly making his way to the spot behind your ear. “My little one,” he breathes into your ear. “You yielded so swiftly to the wind and snow… I envied the storm, and I could only imagine you yielding even more rapidly, more wholly, to me.”

He doesn’t give you a chance to linger on his words. You catch a glimpse of the look in his eyes. He doesn’t care what you want anymore; his passion has consumed the both of you. He grabs your legs and wraps them around his waist. This time, you are the one to lift your head and seal your lips together.

You know you’re not dreaming, because it’s so much better than that. It’s perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This clip from Halt and Catch Fire was, um, inspirational... https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XQ_v-P3exwk  
> (Also, just as a side note, Halt and Catch Fire is an extremely good show, in my opinion, because I love drama and I love that feeling of being surprised)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant for this to be a one-shot, but then this fantasy popped into my head. This is different from everything I've ever written.  
> Happy reading!

It isn’t perfect.

 

When you were a child, you promised yourself you would wait for marriage. And now, with Thranduil between your legs, oh-so-warm and smooth – is this really the time to revoke your promise? You know he means to seduce you; you can tell by his silky, hard length pressed against you.

 

But what about after he has his way with you? What then? You doubt a mere human girl could fulfill the sexual needs – never mind the emotional or intellectual needs – of a great Elven-king. You don’t want to give yourself to someone only once – especially someone you know you’ll never be able to get enough of.

 

You break off the kiss, tucking your chin into your chest, cutting off his access to both your lips and your neck. The reality of the situation comes flooding back to you. What kind of person would slip into bed with someone they hardly know?

 

“Thranduil. I’m sorry.” You feel ashamed for leading him on. He’s going to be furious with you. He’ll surely kick you back out into the cold now. But you have to stay true to yourself, no matter how much you like him – need him. “I can’t sleep with you.” You squeeze your eyes shut so you don’t have to see the look on his face. And even though you’re trying so hard to stay rational, you bury your face in the crook of his neck and shoulder.

 

He wraps his arms around your back, drawing you closer to him. He sits up and pulls you into his lap. You keep your arms around his neck, trying so desperately to find his scent as comforting as you initially found it. His lips brush against your ear. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

 

 _What does this all mean?_ You feel like asking. You take a deep breath in. You know exactly why you feel guilty. The challenge is figuring out how to explain it to him.

 

You ran away from your family, not because they didn’t love you – but because they loved you too much. Your mother was too overprotective, keeping a close eye on you and forbidding you from forming any romantic relationships. As you matured into a young woman, the pressure became too much. Your heart needed freedom.

 

And now you feel ashamed for wanting a new life with a man you barely know. Your mother gave you shelter, protection, love – _everything_ – and you deserted her.

 

“I miss my family,” you finally say. “I think I need to go back.”

 

He cups your face so he can make eye contact with you, so you can see he is sincere. “If that is what you wish, I will make it so.”

 

You gulp. He doesn’t appear to be angry. Is he hiding his true emotions? Your shoulders relax. “Thank you.”

 

He pulls away from you, his warm hands the last thing to leave your skin. “I will send my guard for a weather report.”

 

You shiver, drawing the blanket around you as you watch him dress, making himself presentable before he leaves you for the first time.

 

About twenty minutes later, he returns to his bedroom. “The weather is clear and suitable for travelling.” He hands you a bundle of fabric. “I took the liberty of having your garments washed and mended.”

 

You bow your head. He’s so kind. You can’t believe you’re leaving him. “Thank you.”

 

“I cannot, in all good conscience, allow you to travel alone. I will escort you back to your home, to ensure you arrive safely at your destination.”

 

Your head snaps up to look at him, but he avoids eye contact. He is slowly striding away from you, his chin held high but his eyes cast downward, as if conveying a calculated aloofness. You know you were foolish for travelling alone the first time, but if Thranduil or any of his guards escorted you back, would that not take time away from his other obligations?

 

But if you tried to travel alone… that would mean you’d have to say goodbye right now. Your gaze slips down the cool length of his hair. It hurts too much to look at his profile. “Will I ever see you again?”

 

“Only if you choose to.”

 

You hug your bundle of clothes to your chest. “Do you want to see me again?” Your voice trembles, despite your best efforts.

 

He finally makes eye contact, freezing you. “Why would you ask such a thing?” His voice is pressured.

 

You look down, unable to maintain his intense gaze. “Because I feel like I need you more than you need me. There are so many girls out there.” You can’t believe what you’re saying. You start to sort out your clothes, trying to appear nonchalant, but your hands are trembling. “But there’s only one King Thranduil.” You’re trying to get your foot into your leggings, and then you see his feet in front of you. You blink hard and look up. He is so tall, just looking at him makes you dizzy.

 

“No.” He takes your hands, lifting you onto your feet. You stand in front of him, close enough to feel his warmth through his clothes. “You are the only one.”

 

He kisses you gently.

 

His thumbs are in your palms, and you hang on to this small part of him as his large hands cover yours completely.

 

You break away from his kiss. “I want to stay here with you.”

 

“Then stay.”

 

“But…”

 

As much as you’d love to remain in this romantic fantasy, you’d have to face reality at some point. How would you make use of yourself all day while he went about his tasks? You wouldn’t feel right about staying here if you couldn’t earn your keep, but you don’t even know what – if any – jobs there are for a human in an Elf kingdom. Besides, Thranduil probably runs things so smoothly, there likely aren’t any holes in his kingdom that need to be filled.

 

Even though he’s dressed, you’re still naked – not an ideal state in which to discuss job opportunities. Besides, there are too many remnants of the dream floating around for you to start talking about reality. “When I left my family, I was being selfish, I think. And it would be selfish of me to ask you to escort me home. I think the best thing to do would be to write them a letter so they know where I am. So they can pick me up.”

 

He lowers your hands. His face has grown serious, impossible to read.

 

He waits for you to dress, and then he takes you to what appears to be his office – a vaguely circular room with a lit fireplace and an impressive oak desk. His long legs allow him to stride ahead of you to the large chair behind the desk. “You may help yourself to my materials.” He pulls the chair out, gesturing for you to take a seat. You think about how regal he must look, occupying that chair as though it were made for him – which it probably was. As you sit down, you try not to think about how puny you must look in the chair by comparison. You’d give anything to be able to fit into his world.

 

Gleaming stationery lays in front of you. A long peacock feather quill sits to the right. _So he’s right handed…_

You tear your eyes away from the beauty of his desk to see him striding towards the exit. You speak up before you can stop yourself. “Wait. Could you… stay with me?” When he turns to look at you, his gaze causes the words to tumble from your mouth. “Unless you’re busy. I’m sorry, I’m being selfish again.”

 

“You’re not being selfish, you’re being human. It’s refreshing, endearing, and…“ In just a few steps, he’s beside you again. “Exactly what I’m looking for.” He leans over so his left hand is on your shoulder and his right hand is against the desk. The intimacy of his closeness makes it hard for you to breathe. You don’t know how you’re going to be able to concentrate on writing a letter.

 

“Thank you for letting me use this.” You pluck the quill from its holder. The quill is in excellent condition but you can tell it’s well-loved by how soft it is. You try not to think about the oils from his hand transferring over every time he used it, leaving a permanent, invisible mark on his possession. “You’ve been nothing but generous since the beginning. I know you said I’m not being selfish, but it’s hard not to think that way when you’re so kind.”

 

He pushes the ink pot closer towards you so you don’t have to reach so far. “On the contrary, I’m quite capable of being selfish.” He removes the lid from the ink pot. With a surprising amount of carelessness, he lets it fall from his grasp onto the desk. He brushes the hair away from your neck, exposing your bare skin to him. “I could keep you here.”

 

You nearly upset the ink pot. Is he serious? You start to doubt your judgement; you thought for sure he was trustworthy. Is he capable of holding you here? And are you capable of fighting him? Would you even put up a fight?

 

Another wave of guilt washes over you. You know you wouldn’t fight him. You know you would stay here with him, if he made you. You try again to dip the quill in the ink without spilling anything, putting all your energy into making sure your hands don’t shake. “I’m just worried that you’d get bored with me.”

 

“Perhaps you would be the one to grow bored with me?”

 

You turn to look at him, your eyes wide. He’s got one eyebrow cocked. You’d think he was teasing if his tone hadn’t been so serious. “No, I could never,” you stammer.

 

He laughs at your reaction. His laugh is intoxicating, perplexing, because if it came from anyone else, you’d be sure they were making fun of you. But somehow Thranduil sounds as though he’s on your side. “But we barely know each other. How can you be so certain?”

 

He’s playing devil’s advocate, and it’s frustrating because it’s working. “Because there’s something about you. I don’t know, I can feel it.”

 

His gaze drops to your lips. He closes the distance between you, and your eyes drift shut.

 

“Write the letter," he says. "If you don’t, I will. However, I cannot promise you that my message would be the same as yours.”

 

You open your eyes. He’s still got his hand on your shoulder, but he’s pulled away from you. Your face heats up. You shouldn’t have expected a kiss. You shouldn’t expect anything from him. It’s too risky. But what he’s said has you intrigued. “What would you tell my mother?” You imagine introducing him to your family…

 

And then you scold yourself. What business would an Elven-king have meeting a human family of no status? Thranduil’s bedroom is almost as big as your entire house.

 

His hand grazes your smaller one as he steals his quill from your grasp. “I would tell her that her beautiful daughter is unable to return home, as the Elven-king of the Woodland Realm has claimed her as his wife.”

 

You jump, snapping your head to look at him. He strokes the feather against his chin. His smile tells you he’s waiting for your reaction.

 

You hold out your hand. “I think I’d better write the letter.”

 

His deep laugh makes you light-headed. You barely register the quill being placed back in your hand; your mind is racing. _He’s trying to get under my skin. Or is there truth to what he said? Is he really looking for a wife? But he would marry royalty… or at least an Elf. He’s teasing me._

You scribble hastily, before the devil in you lets him write that letter. What a horrible joke that would be to play on your family. After all, you still love them. It’s just that you love freedom above all.

 

     Dear Ma,

     I am at the Elven-king of the Woodland Realm’s fortress. His Elven guards are keeping me safe. I request that you meet me here so that I may return home safely.

     Love,

 

You sign your name, exhausted. Your mother probably won’t even recognize your penmanship, it’s so shaky.

 

As you let the ink dry, Thranduil hands you an envelope so you can write your address on it. He takes the letter and slips it inside the envelope, and then exits the room to summon a servant.

 

“Send our fastest courier," he says to to the servant. "It is crucial that it be delivered today.”

 

You clasp your hands in your lap. You know he’s only trying to be helpful, but does he really want your mother to come that quickly?

 

You feel a surge of regret. You want to run out and grab the letter and tell him you want to stay here. But it’s too late now. You try to console yourself; you’ve made the responsible and rational choice.

 

You hear him re-enter the room. You keep your head bowed until you see his hand, palm up, in front of you. “My little one, you must be famished.”

 

Your anxiety was quelling your appetite, but he’s right – you can’t remember your last meal. You place your hand in his and he helps you rise. “Yes.”

 

“Follow me.” He drops your hand to open the door, holding it open for you. “As long as you are with me, I accept full responsibility for your wellbeing.”

 

“You are very kind to your guests.”

 

“Not all of them.”

 

As you walk through the doorway, you catch a glimmer of wickedness in his eyes that makes you doubt his goodness all over again.

 

* * *

 

He leads you through the winding corridors, holding your hand the entire time, his thumb on top of yours. You would have thought that holding his hand would have been as life changing as kissing him, but strangely, it’s not – in a good way, though. It feels so natural, as though your right hand was made for his left hand. The hand on which he'd wear a wedding band...

 

You feel dizzy again, embarrassed even though your thoughts are private – thank God. You wish you could drive that ridiculous comment about being his wife out of your head. He was only joking; he’s probably moved on and forgotten about it by now.

 

A plateful of steaming vegetables and delicious, crystal-clear water were the only things seductive enough to draw your attention away from him. A hot meal – let alone fresh vegetables – required so much effort to attain, back at home, it’s almost unbelievable how easily accessed they are here.

 

After dinner, you worry about what he has planned for you. You wonder if he’ll take you back to his bedroom…

 

You stopped him from seducing you once, but how much more resistance do you have left in you? What if he’s capable of taking you against your will?

 

You try to push the thought from your mind. You feel ashamed for having that kind of a thought about someone who has been nothing but kind.

 

He takes your hand again. The glimmer is back in his eyes. “Tell me, my little one. Do you enjoy music?”

 

Your heart skips a beat. “Yes, I do.”

 

“Excellent, because we will be dancing to it.”

 

Your mouth opens, but you catch yourself before your entire jaw hits the floor. It’s not that you hate dancing… but you’re not exactly an expert at it. And dancing with Thranduil would probably make you so nervous, you’d trip over your feet before the music started.

 

But you don’t want to be rude. He is your host – and rescuer – and besides that, he’s a king. You owe him so much respect, it’s intimidating. You smile, hoping he doesn’t notice you gulp. “Okay.” You look down at your clothes.

 

As if reading your mind, he waves his hand. “It is an intimate gathering, rather informal. Do not concern yourself with the mundanities of dress. You are already radiant.”

 

You feel light-headed again. He holds your hand a little more firmly so you can lean on him.

 

He leads you to a gathering of about ten other elves, held in a cozy room with a skylight offering everyone a perfect view of the stars. You peer up at the sheer vastness of the night. The crescent moon seems to hang at the top of the sky like a little smile.

 

He pours you a cup of wine. It’s so delicious – it isn’t dry, like the few other wines you’ve tasted. This one is deliciously wet, it’s almost like juice, only incredibly, unbelievably better, and you can’t get enough –

 

He gently guides the chalice away from your lips, his eyebrows raised. “Careful. Savour it, my little one.”

 

He introduces you to everyone, using your full name.

 

“And who is she?” One of them speaks. The room falls silent as they all eye you curiously.

 

You look at him, having no idea how to respond. What are you to him? You feel the heat creep up into your face again, partly from embarrassment and partly from the wine. You try to let go of his hand. _I am nothing to him. He doesn’t need me._

He tightens his grip on your hand. “She is mine.”

 

After engaging in a round of conversation with everyone, he leads you through a doorway out onto a rooftop terrace. “Wait here.” He goes back inside to talk with someone in hushed tones. You hear them burst out laughing.

 

Are they laughing at you? You’re hit with a sudden wave of nausea. You grip the railing that divides Thranduil’s party from the rest of the world, shivering.

 

He returns wearing a thick cape, holding another one for you. He places it around your shoulders, ensuring it fits you snug.

 

The moon is bright, but it can’t cut through the darkness of the trees. You look out onto the view of the forest. You can’t believe you travelled through it alone. He stands close beside you. He could rival the trees, for he is just as tall and mysterious.

 

You hold your tongue. You have so many things you want to tell him, but you stay silent in case he has something important to say.

 

“I am afraid I must confess something.”

 

His voice makes you shiver again. Or maybe the cape he gave you is too thin.

 

You inhale the cold night air, hoping it will help clear your senses. You try to remain calm, but a part of you wonders, _did I make a bad impression? That’s why they were laughing. Or maybe he really is toying with me, and they’re in on it. That’s why he didn’t want me to change my clothes, so he could give his friends a laugh._

He slips his hand inside your cape, touching your waist – the touch feels too intimate, given your level of nervousness. The forest is too ominous; you turn to him so you’ll have something beautiful to look at instead.

 

His face grows serious. “I destroyed the letter.”

 

Your mouth hangs open. You shake your head. “But…”

 

“Now you know I can be selfish. I hope you can forgive me, my little one.”

 

Part of you feels angry. Now you know he is capable of lying to you, of keeping secrets from you. You want to turn away, to deny him the ability to hold you.

 

But a darker part of you feels aroused by his deviousness. If he’d do anything to keep you with him – even lying to you, temporarily – then does that mean he truly wants you? You look down at his chest. “I can’t say I forgive you.”

He breathes you name, causing you to heat up over how nice it sounds to hear him say it. He wraps his other arm around your waist, and you’re deciding if you should let him touch you, when –

 

He leans down and kisses you, pressing you against the railing and holding you tight against his body. You keep your eyes open. This is more forceful than what you’re used to. So far he’s given you nothing but gentle kisses, but this one has a touch of ferocity in it. Are his sweet kisses the norm, and this kiss the aberration? Or is he actually aggressive – his gentleness just temporary?

 

You want to think that he’s normally gentle.

 

He moves a hand to the back of your head, tilting it until the angle of your head pleases him, and then he kisses you so passionately…

 

Your legs feel weak. You wobble a bit and your lips become unfastened from his. You whimper slightly from the loss of contact, and then scold yourself for showing that you need him. He is powerful and independent in ways you could only dream of being. No matter what he says, he'll never truly need you.

 

Your voice is barely audible. “What about the others inside?”

 

“I told them all to leave.”

 

The air feels icy on your mouth without his lips pressed against you. You turn your head to look at the forest so he can’t see your eyes. “So my family will never know where I am.”

 

He holds your face and says your name. Gently. You sigh with relief, smiling, melting into the warm touch of his hands.

 

He shakes his head. “No, darling, I had the letter delivered.”

 

You smile. Now you know for sure he’s joking. “You said you destroyed it.”

 

“I destroyed your letter. And then I sent my own. My little one, your family knows exactly where you are.”

 

You freeze and try to suppress a choke. “Your letter…?”

 

He takes your hand in his. “I wish for you to stay here, as my wife.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From 0:49-0:56 here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=836tIMAA4IY is kinda how I imagine Thranduil behaving when he opens up/isn't so emotionally distant. Like being gentler and smiling warm-heartedly...


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